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TILES FROM THE PORGELAIN 
TOWER 



TILES 

FROM THE 

PORCELAIN TOWER 

BY 
EDWARD GILCHRIST 



Happy they ! 
Thrice fortunate ! who of that fragile mould. 
The precious porcelain of human clay, 

Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
The long year link'd with heavy day on day, 

And all which must be borne and never told ; 
While life's strange principle will often lie 
Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

Don Juan, Canto IV, Stanza 11. 



CAMBRIDGE 

JJrinteU at X^t EiterfiiiHe JJcega; 

1906 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Tv/o Copies Received 

DEC 6 1906 

. Copyright Entry ,^ 
CLASS A XXc, I 



No. 



.S\3 



TS3 

.I44-3TS' 



COPYRIGHT 1906 BY EDWARD GILCHRIST 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



CONTENTS 

Invocation 1 

A Floral Calendar 3 

A Song of the Sap 6 

Bird Notes 9 

En Route H 

Jasmine's Receipt 13 

Safe Navigation 15 

korolyeva 16 

The Mystic Cavalier 1*7 

A Life-Mask • 19 

An Unspoken Epilogue 21 

The Tribes of the Titan 23 

Kai Yuan 25 

The Pipe of Doom 30 

The Forced March 32 

On the Shield 34 

The Tentmakers 38 

A Dust Storm 42 

The Mirror of Narcissus 45 

The Two Taverns 47 

The Dayspring 49 

When the Clock struck Thirteen ... 51 

A Lyre of Limbo 54 

The Lady of the Mist 59 

Lost Inspiration 62 

The True Glory 63 



vi CONTENTS 

Translations : 

Epigrams from the Greek Anthology . . 65 
From the Danish 

The Roses of the Hulder .... 68 
From the Russian 

The Cossack Courier 75 

The Tears of the Mothers .... 77 

Mortal Ironies 78 

From the Chinese 

The White SwaUow 79 

At the Grave of Hsiao Hsiao-ho ... 80 
Sonnets : 

An Ultimatum 81 

Tennyson : A Memoir 83 

To Hermes Angelus 84 

In a Mountain Lamasery 85 

The Porcelain Tower 87 



TILES FROM THE PORCELAIN 
TOWER 



TILES FROM THE PORCELAIN 
TOWER 

INVOCATION 

Thy beauty makes not the muezzin-call 

To worship that men deem divine. 
No lights between thy lids keep festival, 

A chilly mine 

Of gems to shine 

For one and all. 

Not thine to dazzle with insensate charm. 

No cavalier sighs in thy train, 
Nor thine the perfidy that doth disarm, 

A face that feigns 

At lovers' pains 

A coy alarm. 

But for the soul thou hast a searching ray 
That pierces mortal flesh to find 

Not perfect porcelain nor blemish'd clay; 
A constant mind 
Beneath the rind 
Where passions play. 



INVOCATION 

Thou art a lamp to every darken'd power 
That works with silentness for peace, 

A rainbow, in bereavement's loit'ring hour 
Purpling the fleece 
That shall release 
Love's richest shower! 



A FLORAL CALENDAR 

Hail and farewell, 
Sweet blossom nurtured in the snow 

That doth compel 
Thy shape with its star-crystals ere they go! 

Thou callest Spring 
Back from the sealed sepulchre of earth, 
Yet diest witnessing her strange new birth 

When the first robins sing 
O'er broken shell. 

Hail, mayflower! Farewell! 

Hail and farewell, 
Rich rose that greetest Summer with thy lips! 

Thou mayst but tell 
Thy passion to the gossip-bee that dips 

Deep in thy heart. 
When for the Eden where no beauties perish 
A mystic gardener culls thee, to cherish 

In that forbidden part 
Whence Adam fell. 

Hail, rosebud — and farewell! 



A FLORAL CALENDAR 

Hail and farewell. 
Prince-prelate of the August wilderness. 

That in the dell. 
With gorgeous scarlet for thy hat and dress, 

Hearest a mass 
Said for the soul of Summer by the birds. 
Too proud to bend thy head at sacred words, 

And signless letting pass 
The sacring-bell ! 

Hail, cardinal! Farewell! 

Hail and farewell. 
Gold-truncheon' d marshal of the red array! 

Thou canst not quell 
The rout of leaves along the autumn way. 

That erst wore green. 
Their squadrons fly before November's van; 
The victor shrouds them all in sombre tan 

In dingle and in dene. 
O'er field and fell. 

Hail, goldenrod! Farewell! 

Hail and farewell, 
All blessed saints of floral calendar! 

Now in the cell 
And catacomb of bitter days ye are; 

But pagan frost 



A FLORAL CALENDAR 5 

Of persecution shall not long prevail, 
Winter and Death are Knights who bring the 
Grail 
That we need last and most, — 

Sleep's quick'ning spell. 
Hail, flowers! Hail and farewell! 



A SONG OF THE SAP 

O DOUBTING boy. 

Drink of each joy 
While spring is in thy heart. 

Pluck fruit and flower 

Of passing hour. 
Nor shun the nettle's smart! 

Dread not the twinge 
In pleasure's fringe; 

I know that from the thorn 
To be exempt 
Would not me tempt. 

And many have I worn! 

For badge assume 
No flower of gloom 

Devoid of scent and sting. 
But on thy brow 
The rose bind thou. 

And envy not the King! 



A SONG OF THE SAP 

Oh, never brood 

Upon the Rood 
Ere time hath tonsured thee; 

But dare fulfill 

Each sigh and thrill 
Of nature sane and free! 

With heart's ink write. 

And boldly smite 
The harp that's highly strung; 

Let Mass be said 

But for the dead 
And in an unknown tongue! 

A miser curst 

Was he that first 
Did pray 'gainst sudden death. 

Who would not spend 

Nor give nor lend 
A moment of his breath. 

Why hoard thy stock 

Of grain and flock 
For threescore years and ten. 

To pay thy nurse 

Or deck thy hearse 
Or silence clergymen ? 



A SONG OF THE SAP 

Be no man's drudge. 

But never grudge 
The joys that others find, 

'T is ne'er too soon 

To take a boon, 
Too early to be kind! 

There's no success 
That's worth the stress 

Of vigil or of fast 
To him that greets 
Each day he meets 

As if it were his last. 

No solemn priest 

At Cana's feast 
But deems it, tho' divine. 

Exceeding strange 

That one should change 
Life's water into wine ! 



BIRD NOTES 

OuB forefathers attuned their minstrelsy 

To simpler chords than we; 
'Twixt harp and throat lies no harmonic ocean. 
No strangeness in the tongue of an emotion 
Like the great orchestra's resounding surge. 
Or wailing winds pent in an organ dirge. 

What have we gain'd who supersede the lute. 

The zither, and the flute 
For brass and bellows, or the bow that stings 
A violin to wake the wildest things 
That prowl within the jungle of the soul ? 
We have invoked the satyr and the ghoul. 

What have we lost ? The native wine of song 

That by a feather'd throng 
Is vinted each new summer thro' the wold. 
The ancient tale of love that ne'er is told 
Too often, but shall be as blithely sung 
When Art is dead as when all arts were 
young. 



10 BIRD NOTES 

Hark! 'T is that tiny troubadour of spring, 

The robin, carolling; 
Careless who criticise his style, elate 
K but the tones may touch his tender mate. 
Love ignorant of death throbs in that air, 
Hymns that are full of praise, but not of prayer. 

robin, pouring forth thine ecstasy. 

Thou bringest unto me 
A drop of cheerfulness that can assuage 
A moment of the thirst of pilgrimage. 

1 would that at the last thy note might be 
My " Bon Voyage ! " into eternity ! 



EN ROUTE 

** What is the road to a maiden's heart ? 

Tell me the way, 

Traveler gray, 
Whither to journey and whence to start. 

Answer me truly, pray!" 

** Start from Life's beach, and climb the hill 

That crowns the bay 

Of childish play. 
Skirt the Lake of Dreams and cross the Rill 

Of Laughter ere you stay. 

Turn to the right by the trysting-stile 

In the meadows gay 

With scented hay 
That is made 'neath the sun of a damsel's smile 

Of sweet and transient ray. 

And tho' it rain, yet must you ne'er 

Let fond dismay 

Your quest betray, 
For love with moods will she ensnare. 

And her face is an April day." 



n EN ROUTE 

"Then will you not lead me, pilgrim old. 
Lest I should stray ? " 
"Ah, stranger, nay! 

My path lies in December cold, 

Your path is thro' the May!" 



JASMINE'S RECEIPT 

The mountain summits clear and blue 

As porcelain of Kintechun 
Peep through the feathery bamboo; 

Adown the slopes, bom of the dew. 
Bright streamlets run. 

Jasmine the flower fills all the air, 

Jasmine the girl holds all my heart, 

She wears her namesake in her hair 
(But lass with blossom to compare 
Were want of art). 

She walks with tiny, falt'ring feet 
That mock the gait of infancy, 

Yet nothing needs she to complete 

Her grace, and all her steps are sweet 
That lead to me. 

When in yon gay kiosk we sup 

At eve, she laughing bids me tell 

How many fingers she holds up — 
Ah, many is the forfeit-cup 
Her hands compel ! 



14 JASMINE'S RECEIPT 

And as the mellow liquor steams, 

Her plaintive voice and lute are heard, 

The air a bird's impromptu seems 
And conjures evanescent dreams 
Of joy deferr'd. 

Then oft I bid the damsel hush. 

And, quickly to mine ink-stone turning, 

I strive to form with pencil-brush 

Some lines that may translate the thrush 
For human learning. 

O song that breathes of summer skies. 
With impulse of perfection fluent, 

Stay, till thy secret I apprise. 

Nor ever from the weary wise 
Remain a truant! 

Vain task ! But Jasmine says : " I sing 
Thus, for I love thee with no lore. 

Do thou, my learned poet, bring 
Less of the unessential thing. 
Of passion more!" 



SAFE NAVIGATION 

Like silver sails that on midsummer seas 
Do gleam and vanish, are thy phantasies. 
Riding in careless grace along the wave 
That is a glass and yet may be a grave. 
O fragile bark, whose voyage was begun 
Under a gentle breeze and mellow sun. 
Tack not at every breath, nor fear each shoal 
Foaming before thee is thy destin'd goal. 
So to a haven shalt thou come at length, 
Rockbound, but rich in shelter and in strength! 



KOROLYl^VA 

Ev'n as a wintry star 
Breaketh its lance of light on frozen river. 

Baffled my pleadings are 
Tho' sparks upon thy haughty lids may quiver; 

A love that cometh from afar 
Can thaw no drop of pity for the giver. 

Ev'n as a rose in bloom, 
Thou hast no jealousy of humbler flowers. 

For thine 't is to assume 
Unchallenged royalty of summer hours; 

Before the nodding of thy plume 
Each vassal blossom in obeisance cowers. 

Hast thou indeed no taste 
For aught but adoration bending lowly? 

Then was the boon a waste 
That tinged thee with illusion warm and holy, 

But on a pedestal hath placed 
Apart from life, in marble melancholy! 



THE MYSTIC CAVALIER 

Better ne'er met than met too late ! 

Better ne'er met — we are not free ! 
I've ta'en th' inconstant wind to mate. 

And all thy spring of ardency 
Can quicken not old Winter's rime: 
Ah, why met we, if not in time ? 

Better to part ere 't is too late. 

Not furtively and guiltily. 
Nor railing 'gainst the face of Fate 

That veils itself in cruelty. 
Tho' wind and frost be now unkind. 
What summer may not lurk behind ? ^ 

Nay, then we had not met in vain. 
And keeping faith would be as sweet 

As now 't is bitter with the pain 
Of hearts denied their paraclete. 

If to our lips some year that 's hidden 

Should bring the chalice long forbidden. 



18 THE MYSTIC CAVALIER 

For even in millennial June 

A rose upspringing from my breast 

Might send a bee with nuptial shoon 
To rose thine ashes had express'd; 

So, lying *mid the vanquish'd dead 

Thro' ages sunder'd, we should wedl 



A LIFE-MASK 

He is fit, if a fitness be proved in survival. 
By malevolence smoothly congeal'd in a smile. 

In supple alertness to ruin a rival, 
By gesture that deprecates guile. 

He is true, if fidelity be introspective, 
And generous — not to a fault — with his 
friends ; 

But his knowledge so accurate is of perspective 
That impulse with interest blends. 

He tacks to each gust of advance or reaction, 
And never has work'd for a desperate cause. 

But speaks most superbly in aid of the faction 
Coming in on the tide of applause. 

He has eloquent scorn for the frailties of passion 
He never has felt, that he never may feel; 

Fate gives him the cards in a prodigal fashion. 
Whoever may happen to deal. 



20 A LIFE-MASK 

His youth was an autumn, his manhood a winter, 
In age who can hope that his nature will thaw ? 

He has burn'd thro' a lifetime each faggot and 
splinter 
Adjudged him by custom and law. 

Such as he is, let him pass or surpass us, 
Reach the cold eminence whither he climbs; 

Grudge not the facile ascent of Parnassus 
Made by a master of rhymes! 

Pity ye rather the need that abuses 

The trust of a comrade's o'erconfident heart. 

And the soul that a human identity loses 
In dwelling forever apart! 



AN UNSPOKEN EPILOGUE 
(for "a woman of no importance") 

We ring the curtain down with cheers 
Upon our masqued '* MoraUties," 

Those who have wept, to dry their tears 
And smiHng greet " Reahties;" 

Or hghtly fancy as they go 

The Tragedy lay in the Show. 

Ring down the curtain, and depart 
From the warped wisdom of its baize! 

" There is no Truth — or Truth is Art; 
There is no Blame — else Blame is Praise; 

There is no Fiction — save the Fact; 

No Acting — but in the Entr'acte! " 

Each cold and brilliant epigram, 
Like an envenom'd dagger's blade 

Twin-edged for Substance and for Sham, 
Wounded the cunning hand that made; — 

His snaky weapon's final test 

Is on the Armorer exprest. 



22 AN UNSPOKEN EPILOGUE 

A horde of echoes from the " Wings " 
Are in the heart's vault resonant. 

The Furies' laughter, full of stings. 
Or requiem that demons chant. 

When bells infernal seem to toll 
» In mockery of the human soul. 

O that some Marston might arise 
To rede this riddle on the stage. 

Unveiling for our wistful eyes 
The mystery of this New Age; 

And let its first performance be 

Billed as "The Playwright's Tragedy!" 



THE TRIBES OF THE TITAN 

Race whose drum-beat marks the quickstep of 
the morning, 

Whose reveille attends each rising of the sun, 
I salute ye in your continents and islands. 

Not in government, but glory, ye are one ! 

Ever onward, ever eastward, ever westward 
Push your banners, with their crosses or their 
stars, 
And behind them tramp the foster-sons of free- 
dom 
From the pink of dawn to even's ruddy bars. 

What a heritage of power is your portion! 

What a destiny of wonder doth await 
The fruition of your struggles in the future. 

Giant offspring of a tiny sea-girt State! 

Tho'the despot and the demagogue may threaten. 
Flinch ye never, faint ye never by the way! 



24 THE TRIBES OF THE TITAN 

Half the world your hive hath given law and 
language 
That shall only with the planet pass away! 

Law that lifts the poor and humble into man- 
hood, 
Tongue enrich'd by every climate of the 
earth — 
These have level'd pride and privilege before 
them, 
Set brotherhood beyond the claim of birth ! 

From the faith that made its votary a bondman, 
From the sordid necromancy of the priest, 

Ye have broken, but your love hath never fal- 
ter'd 
To the Star that rose in splendor o'er the East ! 

All your envies and your jealousies are kindled 
By the foemen that ye baffled long ago. 

Let them plant the tare to reap a barren harvest. 
The wheat of peace and concord ye must sow ! 

Let your ensigns aye salute and never challenge. 
In a covenant of equals ye must share, 

Let the Lion be the chieftain of the forest. 
And the Eagle lead the legion of the air! 



KAI YUAN 

Between the Po-yang Lake and Yang-tse rise 

The Hills of Lu, a titan cloisonne 

Of malachite and turquoise ere the day 

Dieth in splendor, and with western skies 

Sharing the amber blushes left upon 

Their cheeks by the last kisses of the sun. 

Full many fledgeling streams with silver treble 

Fly from that rugged nest o'er shale and pebble. 

Like truants for the mighty river make. 

Or hide within the bosom of the lake. 

One that is born amid the wild bees' hum 

In fastness where all larger life is dumb 

Biddeth the terraced foothills bloom and smile 

As if to mock in miniature the Nile; 

But murmureth to the Yang-tse, fleck'd with 

flowers, 
'T was here Kai Yuan built his votive towers. 

Kai Yuan, the wise Son of Heaven, 
Dozing in his tent at even. 
Saw the rose-clouds of the west 
With a vast encampment drest; 



26 KAI YUAN 

Banners proudly poled 
O'er imperial pavilions 
Ample for the countless millions 
By the King of Death enroU'd. 
The other Self, that sleepeth when we wake, 
Breathed from Kai Yuan an ecstatic prayer 
That, shod with silence, climb'd the gorgeous air, 
And to the bivouac of phantoms spake : 
" Spirits, whosoe'er ye be, 
Of my sacred Ancestry, 
What may I, that hold the Earth 
By the right of Heavenly Birth, 

Do to welcome ye ? 
From what island of the sky 
To the world's marge draw ye nigh 
Bringing ghostly grace to me ? " 

Then from among the tents that gleam'd afar 
A Figure stood forth on a shining car. 
Its wheels with studded carbuncles aglow. 
And upon either side a martial row 
Of archers gay on milk-white ponies came, 
Their surcoats were a cloth of woven flame. 
Across the hither heaven did they ride, 
Halted, and then a thrilling voice replied: 
" Kai Yuan, Son of Heaven, behold 
Thy kinsmen of the Age of Gold, 



KAI YUAN 27 

Thy blessed Ancestry; 
This mead hereafter they will haunt 
In high and holy covenant 

To consecrate thy majesty. 

" So build, in trophy of thy reign. 
Upon this site a tower'd fane, 

Where centuries to be 
May learn the Wisdom of the Way, 
The secrets of the starry sway 

That fiUeth the infinity. 
Thro' nine firmaments descending 
Reach we now our journey's ending, 

And 't is our behest 
That the name of thy foundation 
;Honor'd be throughout the nation 

As 'The Shrine of Heavenly Quest'!" 

The Son of Heaven awoke, as out of sight 
The gourd of day dipp'd in the well of night. 
Kai Yuan, with a solemn zeal impress'd, 
Hasten'd to satisfy his glorious Guest; 
So, taking counsel with the priests who ponder 
The lore of Lao-tse, workers of deep wonder. 
He gather'd swarms of cunning artisans 
To whom the inspiration of the plans 
Game also from that far prismatic shore 



28 KAI YUAN 

Of heaven where dwells the * Pearly Emperor,' 
And like enchantment on the destined site 
Arose a temple of the Taoist Rite. 
The Hills of Lu gave up their fleece of firs 
To frame it, caverns 'neath their rocky spurs 
Yielded symbolic stains for each pavilion, 
Scarlet and White and Green and rich Vermilion. 
Here taper'd turrets fringed with tremulous 

bells, 
And there loom'd towers whence came the 

harsher knells 
Of brazen gong or tympan's deeper roll 
In many tones appealing to the soul. 
But in the centre of the Close 
A fountain from a tank arose 

Out of a lily nest. 
Where sparkling water bubbled through 
Pipes of the delicate bamboo 

From springs beneath the mountain-crest; 
And every stone or grain of sand 
That paved the pool, might deck the hand 

Or forehead of a queen; 
The orient ruby's sanguine blaze, 
The emerald of purest rays. 

And sapphire with its moonlit sheen 
Stored in their facets all the light 
Of Day-star, and gave forth at night 



KAI YUAN 29 

A dim and frosty fire 
That made of every nenuphar 
The likeness of a fallen star 

Or virgin-victim on a pyre. 

By geomantic table, slow revolving, 

Stood the v^an wizards, time and tide resolving. 

Five iron fingers jutted from the table, 

Four to the compass cardinals inclining, 

And one the zenith of the sky defining; 

Upon a hollow sphere the Hand was stable, 

And at the augur's slightest touch it spun 

The fates of men and courses of the sun. 

Here too was mixt the youth-renewing draught, 

The Wine of Life that never hath been quaff'd. 

And here the priceless formula was told 

For turning baser metals into gold; 

But not a vestige of such mighty powers 

Remaineth, save the ruins of twin towers 

And the rust-eaten Iron Hand that wrote 

The oracles of vague astrology. 

No lilies blossom in the thirsty moat 

Whose gems are gone; yet one at eve may see 

A cloud encampment in the radiant west, 

And from the mythic islands of the blest 

Perchance the Gods may sometime come again 

To build anew their covenant and fane. 



THE PIPE OF DOOM 

Yes, fill the pipe again, — one measure more 

Shall with its spicy vapor waft me o'er 
The frontier of the poppy faeryland 

Where I have mortgaged all the fretful dream 
Called waking could secure me. Hollow wand! 

Thou hast devour'd the drama of a life; 
Love and ambition melted in thy steam 

With all desires that conjure men to strife. 

Wisdom, success and honor, pride and fame. 

Folly, disgrace and ruin, praise or blame. 
To me are word-shells only; at mine ear 

They drone a dead refrain, for I have leam'd 
A language and a music none may hear 

Save from this slender pipe. If I might sing 
What wizard melodies are here intern'd. 

Winter were rose-bound, dead leaves deck'd the 
Spring ! 

This day the Emperor will take my head 
For having dream'd the while my legion fled, 



THE PIPE OF DOOM 31 

Routed by frost and famine more than foe, 
Because their rations I withheld, to buy 

Such stuff as maketh dreams. The sudden blow 
Of headsman dread I not, unless the spell 

That is upon me lift before I die. 

For if Death be no Waking, all is well! 



THE FORCED MARCH 

Whither we marched I cannot say, 
For 't was in Dreamland, where I fell ' 

In mutiny upon the way. 

Nor should I else be here to tell. 

But we were halted by a stream 
Voiceless and verdureless and deep. 

Whose dumb waves in their flow did seem 
The pulses of a Fiend asleep. 

Nor were we in the front or rear: 
From the horizon did our files 

Emerge, afar to disappear 
In dust of never-ending miles. 

Of regions traversed, some were bright, 
But more the bleak homes of despair; 

We seldom tarried with delight, 

But oft were quartered on lean care. 

I know not if we made advance. 
Or irretrievable defeat 



THE FORCED MARCH 33 

In ancient clash of lance with lance 
Had turn'd our columns in retreat. 

Some fear'd the army was in flight 
From a fair kingdom we had lost. 

But hoped we were led on to fight 
For Freedom by the Holy Ghost. 

Some murmur'd that the whole campaign 
Was futile; we had best disband, 

Forage the cities of the plain 
And hibernate upon the land. 

They would no more be mobilised 

For such a mythical attack, 
And said no Strategist devised 

The plan that set us on or back. 

Ah, sad parade from birth to bier 
For which the midwife doth enlist. 

No substitute a name may clear, 
No conscript may the draft resist! 

The brazen music of a band 

Blew faint and fitful from the van 

In mingled measure, wild and grand. 
To marshal the Forced March of Man. 



ON THE SHIELD 

On a shield we raised our King; 

Throned him thus in time of stress 
Whom the talkers of the Thing 

Had ignored in their success. 

Standard, palace, crown were ta'en. 

Capital in foeman's hand. 
Wives dishonor' d, children slain, 

Tortured all the fatherland. 

Mute in council aye sat he 

When the flaccid phrase was loud. 
While to lords of fluency 

All the commonalty bow'd. 

Gods whose altars crumbled down 

At a crisis unforeseen; 
Heroes of the staff and gown, 

How they scrambled from the scene! 

Not a word had he to spare 
For the cackle of the court. 



ON THE SHIELD 35 

For the shriekings of despair, 
For the cynic's cheap retort. 

"Something I may do," he said 

At the nadir of our woe. 
When the dynasty had fled 

And the nation's pulse was low. 

"Give me Kingship for an hour. 
Let me sow and ye shall reap. 

All the circumstance of power. 
Gems and ermine, ye may keep." 

On his shield we lifted him. 

Shoulders shrugging 'neath the weight, 
Mocking eyes above the rim 

Challenged him to save the state. 

Out of chaos into light, 

Out of torpor into strength, 
Into honor from despite 

Came our country's cause at length. 

Not thro' wizardry or wile. 

Not in parley or debate, 
Nor by fortune's April smile 

Was he number'd with the great. 



ON THE SHIELD 

When the forts were ours again, 
When the harried coasts were clear. 

And the race that used to reign 
Finding there was naught to fear 

From their exile on the trail 
Of his triumph came in haste. 

Quoting statute and entail, 

Fretting that they were displaced. 

All their foreign royal kin 

Who had been so calm before. 

Barely bidding them come in 
As they shiver'd at the door. 

Cried : " Behold your ancient Kings, 
Render them what is their own!" 

And old harpies with clipp'd wings 
Fluttered round the empty throne. 

Then a Princeling, outland bred, 
Tender'd titles to our Chief, 

Heralds' livery instead 

Of the rule that brought relief. 

Gazing on the puny boy 
'Neath an eyelid full of dream: 



ON THE SHIELD 37 

" If thou be not tool or toy, 
Learn to swim against the stream! 

"Something I have done," said he ; 

"Shall the doing cost thee nought 
Save an obsolete degree ? 

Not for parchments have I fought! 

"I am weary: try to wield 
What thy fathers could not keep." 

So he stepped down from the shield 
Back to silence, soon to Sleep. 

Now the chroniclers in pay 

Of hereditary rights 
Almost have explain'd away 

How he won his hundred fights! 

We that raised him on the shield. 
Passing with him to the bourn, 

To the Glory unreveal'd 
Add the glory he has worn. 



THE TENTMAKERS 

(a ghostly dialogue) 

It chanced that in the Fourth Dimension met 
Two minds unburden'd somewhat of their clay, 

Unshadow'd 'neath a sun that never set. 
Beyond the terms of distance and delay. 

Both ghosts were Tentmakers while in the flesh, 
And each had pitch'd a canvas meant to shield 

Mortality against the storms that thresh 
The reason toiling in its earthly field. 

I know not in what sense they could produce 
Expression's soul, the heart of intercourse, 

But thought was purified of word's abuse 
And robes of art tripp'd not the feet of force. 

The elder, in the parlance of this world, 
Address'd the later to our planet born: 

" O Fellow-craftsman, one by one are furl'd 
The tents I raised, or emptied and forlorn. 



THE TENTMAKERS 39 

"Yet thine are crowded with the refugees 
Of ev'ry noble race from Adam sprung: 

I gave the wine of faith, thou but the lees 
Of doubt canst offer unto old and young. 

" What havoc, Omar, in my happy flock 
Thy melancholy quatrains now have made! 

Plead not thou prayest when thou seem'st to 
mock. 
Nor dub thy blasphemy a trick of trade." 

The senior, in the measure of the spheres. 
Responded to his junior in the skies: 

" O Saul, thou bold Apprentice, there appears 
Need of new Vision to unseal thine eyes. 

"Who preach'd this doctrine to the multitude: 
* If He be risen not, eat, drink, and die " ? 

Thus taught the Man of Tarsus, for the 
lewd 
It might turn devil's scripture by and by. 

"And what hath sung the Man of Naisha- 
poor ? 

'To good and bad alike the grape He gave. 
The Host invites, why pass we then His door 

Whether or not He rose once from a grave ? ' 



40 THE TENTMAKERS 

" More stars from furrows have I scann'd, but 
yet 

I have not known the Sower e'er to take 
Dead seed for quick' ning, nor doth He upset 

The laws of being that He erst did make." 

" Died we not daily, Omar, when we knew 
No more of death than now we know of 
God? 

Rose we not mightily to dare and do 
From every failure as from burial clod ? 

"And are we not transfigured from the dust 
Of Tellus to a plane we ne'er conceived ? 

Nay, Thomas of Khorassan, own thou must 
That before seeing thou hast not believed." 

Rejoin'd the Persian, smiling, to the Jew: 
" We talk'd of tents ; such truly are our trade. 

Come back again to pole and peg, for few 
Are wise who from their calling far have 
stray'd. 

"Thy tabernacles roofd the dreams of man 
Until their pictured cloth was thin with age, 

Their ropes have parted, and their narrow span 
The riper consciousness may not engage. 



THE TENTMAKERS 41 

" More sombre is my weft, more brief its turn 
Perhaps than thine has been, still 'neath its 
fold 
Men tarry on their devious way to learn 

The greater secrets that the Heav'ns with- 
hold." 



A DUST STORM 

The witches have mounted the wind and away 
in the welkin are prancing, 
They have woven their habits of dust and swift 
to the sabbat they fare. 
What orgy or blasphemous rite, what tryst of 
carousal and dancing 
Seek they to-day with their lord, the Prince of 
the Power of the Air ? 

Dust of unhistoried Eld, the silting of summers 
forgotten, 
The rag and the rose-leaf are join'd in the mad 
gray measure of death; 
Things that were comely and ripe and creatures 
to life misbegotten 
Meet without favor and fear to revel o'er up- 
land and heath. 

In the flesh did I see thee, O Love, or was it a 
dream of the morning, 
A spirit incarnate and bold that walked 
through the garden of Earth ? 



A DUST STORM 43 

Do I see thee again in the dusk, an atom 'neath 
pity or scorning, 
Made one with the silence and void, thy wealth 
metamorphosed to dearth ? 

Did I bow down before thee, O Fame, in the 
resonant noon of thy splendor ? 
Yea, Envy and I, hand in hand, made humble 
obeisance to thee! 
A refuge thou era vest with me ? Begone ! Was a 
dupe ever tender 
When the mote from his vision was cast and he 
saw thee ev'n as I see ? 

Love is the sand of the steppe and glory a savor- 
less powder, 
Wisdom is here but an ash and folly a flake in 
the blast; 
Dust of the foot and the brain — can ye say 
which is finer or prouder ? 
Gray are all colors; alike the dove and the 
raven at last! 

Hark to the grains as they whirl : " Let us live, 
let us Uve ! " they are sighing, 
"We have thought, we have suffer'd and 
toil'd; we hunger for life bitter-sweet! 



44 A DUST STORM 

In the phantom procession of Ills naught is true 
but the evil of dying. 
At least give us Lethe or Life, O Name that no 
lips may repeat!" 

Then I hear, as it were from within: "O Dust 
that alive asked a potion 
To cool the fierce fever of being, to deaden the 
heart and the nerve, 
Ye shall learn like the fork in the flame, with the 
salt in the spray of the ocean, 
That nothing may shirk or dissolve, but each 
in its season must serve. 

"Ye are flung from the pitiless heels of the heav- 
enly wheeling battalion 
Of inferior planet and moon, reviewed by an 
adjutant sun. 
And Man in the infinite field, like an open- 
mouthed tatterdemalion 
Striveth to guess from a drill how the wars of 
the Godhead are won!'* 



THE MIRROR OF NARCISSUS 

" Most ignorant of what he 's most assur'd. 
His glassy essence." 

Measure for Measure, Act ii, Scene 2. 

Thou art but a Secretion : get thee hence, 
Nor with the errant gas of thy gray bog 

Mislead me further! Thou by every sense 
Art driven hither, thither, thro' the fog 

Of feeling and emotion, as thy type 

Danceth at midnight to the zephyr's pipe. 

Thou art a carnal symptom and a snare. 
Thy vigor but the fullness of a gland, 

Thy languor its depletion ! Joy, Despair — 
Names for the diagnosis of a sand, 

A halt or healthy atom ! Get thee hence ! 

Vex me no more with thine inconsequence! 

Vaunt not thy travels over Space and Time! 
Thou hast not left thy shell — nor e'er shalt 
leave ! 



46 THE MIRROR OF NARCISSUS 

An oyster, bedded in the ocean slime 

Hath journey'd further, or may so believe, 
Than huge Leviathan. 'T is ebb and flow 
Of circumstance that stir thee, Bivalve, so! 

Thou art no mere Secretion, thou art more 
A Secret, dwelling deeper than the knife, 

A Sunbeam whereon Death may shut the door, 
But while thy motes play in the House of Life 

No hand may grasp them and no curb confine, 

Nor any schoolman name them as they shine. 

Narcissus-like thou gazest on thyself 

And to embrace thy phantom thou art fain, 

But the Soul flieth like the mirror-elf, 
Clasp and caress are equally in vain. 

Away! The nymphs are pining for thy love! 

No search of Self hath led to treasure-trove. 



THE TWO TAVERNS 

€rOOD is the cheer at the Sign of the Rose, 
Gay are the guests who this tavern frequent; 

Never from dusk to the dawning they close 
At the Sign of the Rose where Youth's treasure 
is spent. 

Scant is the fare at the Sign of the Yew, 
Dull the sojourners who step from the stage ; 

Late they arrive, but they wake with the dew 
At the Sign of the Yew, at the rest-house of Age. 

At the Sign of the Rose there are rooms for the 
million. 

No one remembers who came and who goes; 
Compell'd by the horn of a ruthless Postilion 

Each traveler starts from the Sign of the Rose. 

The Chambers are few at the Sign of the Yew 

And let in advance by the garrulous Host, 
Who tells drowsy tales of the guests that went 

through 
The lych-gate that sags from its weather-worn 

post. 



48 THE TWO TAVERNS 

At the Sign of the Rose there is deed, not depres- 
sion, 
And revel, not reverie, orders the day; 
Life's wine never fails, thoughts are never in 
session 
At the Sign of the Rose, at the hostel of Play. 

At the Sign of the Yew, out of ware that is earthen 
They feed, and their talk is in quavering prose; 

Of each reminiscence this line is the burthen: 
" I supp'd out of gold at the Sign of the Rose ! " 



THE DAYSPRING 

To them who sat in darkness and the shade 

Of death there came of old a beck'ning Hght 
That on their prison wall its summons made 
And vanished out of sight. 

Upon the haunted stairway of the years 

We watch for a recurrence of the gleam 
With parched eyeballs or with blinding tears, 
With hearts that doubt or dream. 

Upward it led us from the carnal gate 

That dungeon'd once the restless soul of man. 
The path was winding and the time seems late 
Since our ascent began. 

We are the Ancients, and the world is young; 

Our course was but a span : look not beliind ! 
The preludes only of the songs are sung 
Of heart, or soul, or mind! 

Like Newton on the margin of the sea 
We gather pebbles still; the surf that mounts 



50 THE DAYSPRING 

And falters 'neath the moon must breasted be 
To find the ocean-founts. 

What tho' they be not for us to explore ? 

Do we not fly whereo'er our fathers crept? 
And tho' our din of destiny be more, 
Have they not soundly slept ? 

Was it the Dayspring that from Heaven came 

Or but the flicker of a human lamp, 
A fire immortal or a fever-flame 
From marshes foul and damp ? 

Will it be seen again and show the way 

Clear for our feet and far before our eyes? 
Forward! I feel the freshness of new day. 
And thither Freedom lies! 



WHEN THE CLOCK STRUCK THIRTEEN 

Where I wander'd, who may tell ? 
By what witchery or spell 
Held in glamour ? 'Neath my feet 
Flew a lonely, night-bound street. 
While the echoes of my tread 
Far and ominously peal'd 
As of phantom host that fled 
From an ancient battlefield. 
As a stranger did I roam 
Thro' the city of my home 
To a church I ne'er had seen 
Where the bell tolled out — thirteen! 

Ne'er before and ne'er again 
Did I see that dreary plain 
IJke a desert where were set 
Stagnant pools of gleaming jet, 
Ne'er again and ne'er before 
Saw that melancholy shore 
Where the wind-stirr'd grasses bent 
With a desperate merriment, 



52 WHEN THE CLOCK 

Like a bedlamite who laughs 
O'er the poison that he quaffs. 
Nor that belfry of strange mien 
Where the church-bell struck thirteen. 

Black against the sparkhng sky 
Rose the steeple thin and high. 
Blade of the Church Militant, 
And its shadow lay aslant 
On the spectral road beneath 
In the semblance of a sheath. 
Gasping, dizzy, blind and lame 
To the gloomy church I came. 
On its step at length to fall, 
When, against the buttressed wall 
As I wearily did lean, 
Rang the first bell of thirteen. 

Just a whirring, as of wings 
Of unseen, unearthly things, 
Then a note as full and deep 
As the singing of the sea, 
Or a dark abyss where leap 
White cascades in revelry, 
Ere in rivers they align 
Marching to the distant brine; 
And within my throbbing brain 
Died the fever and the pain, 



STRUCK THIRTEEN 53 

While a rapture clear and keen 
Grew with first stroke of thirteen. 

In that cadence sweet and mild 
All the voices as a child 
Dear to me, again awoke. 
As of yore to me they spoke 
With their wonted tender word; 
Kindly questionings I heard 
If the world with me went well. 
Ah, thou sad and solemn bell. 
Since these queries I did hear 
From the quick 't is many a year! 
Many more 't will be, I ween. 
Ere the clock shall strike thirteen. 

From that mellow metal tongue 

I heard all the songs unsung, 

All the yet unbreathed sighs. 

All the still unvoiced cries. 

Heard the threats as yet unmutter'd 

To defiance still unutter'd. 

All the anthems that shall be 

Chanted in futurity. 

Hearts rejected, faith abused. 

Loves triumphant were diffused 

Thro' that night of silver sheen 

When the church-bell struck thirteen. 



A LYRE OF LIMBO 

It was in Limbo, the Forgotten Land, 
A sunless tract amid gray mountains set 

Where the high winds of Hfe have never fann'd, 
Nor love-lorn Echo mock'd her own regret. 

A region strewn with ruins void of name 
Where many arts and fashions were con- 
fused. 

Trophies and storied tombs unknown to fame. 
And mighty talents hidden or abused. 

I know not what soul portal oped to me 

The squander'd treasures of that dreary clime, 

Nor had I pass-word to the mystery 

But seem'd a mere intruder out of Time. 

Methought that every shadow of a life 

Was absent, till mine eyes absorb'd the light 

Of that dim atmosphere and found it rife 
With pictured forms that had but width and 
height. 



A LYRE OF LIMBO 5$ 

They could not moan and gibber like the ghosts 
Of memory immortal; some possess'd 

Only a marble profile, like the hosts 

That treat with coldness an unwelcome guest. 

I moved among them as a fleecy cloud 
Cleaves a fair rainbow but dispels it not, 

I hail'd them, and my voice was harsh and 
loud 
Like mountain thunder in a shepherd's cot. 

Reaching at last an arbor matted o'er 
With wilted roses full of musty scent. 

Whose petals should have crumbled long be- 
fore, 
I paused in wonder what the bower meant. 

And as I peer'd among the leafage dry, 
I saw a Lyre that from the lintel hung 

By a fray'd woollen sash of Tyrian dye; 

A ribbon held the plectrum's golden tongue. 

Then something moved me, who had pass'd the 
wealth 

Of buried cities quite without desire. 
To take into the world again by stealth 

And save from Limbo that forgotten lyre. 



56 A LYRE OF LIMBO 

So, stretching forth my hand, I touch'd a string 
That should, in such a silence, have been 
mute; 

But somehow came a feeble murmuring 
As when the spring sap bubbles in the root. 

'T was scarcely a vibration of the air. 
Or of a pitch too high for human ears, 

Yet in some way I felt the word " Beware ! " 
Whisper'd across the gulf of countless years. 

Quoth I : " Come what come may — thy notes 
shall ring, 

O faery lyre, as in the days of old 
When thy uncanny master used to sing, 

And his wild passion to the roses told!" 

Around me then the purple band I flung. 

And with the golden plectrum swept the 
chords 

Debarr'd to man since poesy was young, 

And never laurell'd with the world's rewards. 

Oh, what a melody was that I heard 
In grievous Limbo, the Forgotten Land! 

An ancient madness in my blood was stirr'd. 
But never came such music from my hand. 



A LYRE OF LIMBO 57 

'*I am a Lyre of Limbo, strike not me! 

O poet, waken not the frenzied strain 
That floated down Pactolus to the sea, 

From hill-girt Sardis to th' Ionic plain! 

" The Daughters Nine of great Mnemosyne 
Have cursed me with oblivion and blight, 

For not among their votaries was he, 
My Lydian who sang of strange delight. 

"To lonely Limbo, the Forgotten Land, 
My sweet and sterile harmonies belong; 

Outlawed of Gods and men the reckless hand 
That takes them for the partners in his song. 

" Tho' seem they pure as is the desert's breath. 

Their ardors vying with the holy flame, 
The worlds that hark to them are sown with 
death. 
Their minstrels shall be garlanded with 
shame!" 

Reluctantly the haunted lyre I placed 

Upon the threshold of the wither'd bower, 

And thro' that dale of doom my path re- 
traced 
O'er the gray summits to the living hour. 



58 A LYRE OF LIMBO 

In dismal Limbo, the Forgotten Land, 
Stray not, O friend, or straying yet forbear 

To wake the music that the Gods have bann'd 
As fatal to mankind, tho' passing fair! 



THE LADY OF THE MIST 

It was a night of mystery and grace. 

Just at the ebbing of the summer-tide, 
The moon upon the meadow turn'd her face 
As tender as a bride. 

There was no lake within that valley's rim. 

No reach of river sparkled 'neath the height, 
But o'er the unshorn clover rose a dim 
Mirage of waters white. 

So wan it was, so like a magic mere 

Set in some mythic Welsh or Breton dell 
By whose vague margin floated shapes of fear 
Under an ancient spell! 

The branches of the thicket 'gainst the sky 
Did weave a goblin scarf of Spanish lace. 
Few stars near the horizon blink'd an eye. 
For moonlight swathed the space. 

There was no sigh of wind among the trees. 
Nor any of life's rumor save the shrill 



60 THE LADY OF THE MIST 

Chant of the cricket, and the distant leas 
Were luminous and still. 

Ah, the o'erflowing basin of the mist 

That laved with light each olive-tinted shore. 
And lured beyond the power to resist 
My spirit to explore! 

To quit the realm of fact and leave behind 

The prose of noon-day for a land of dream, 
A gateway of the faery world to find 
Within the meadow's gleam. 

That elfin postern unto me was shown. 

For by himself the way no mortal wist. 
There came with me, her arm upon my own, 
ALady of the Mist! 

No gaudy hue had she of morning bloom, 

But the night's glory 'round her softly play'd. 
Her beauty was like silver in the gloom, 
As hlies in the shade. 

Moist was the turfy road beneath our feet. 

And glisten'd emerald dews on every blade. 
But faint were they beside the splendor sweet 
From eyelids of the maid! 



THE LADY OF THE MIST 61 

Our words were few, my thoughts a winged 
brood. 
As ankle-deep in mist we slowly stroll'd, 
But white was all the magic of the mood 
That did my heart enfold. 

That moon hath waned, the meadow-grass is 
mown, 
And vanish'd is the lake of witchery, 
The dark-eyed Damsel of the Mist hath flown. 
Save from my reverie! 



LOST INSPIRATION 

It came as 't were a breath 
Prom sunlit snows upon the peaks of Death 

And lifted me 
Above the waste and weariness of life, 
Where bloom the tares that blunt the Reaper's 
knife 

With grim monotony. 
Into a region where the weeks seem hours 
And this world's weeds are changelings for bright 
flowers 

Of fragrant ecstasy. 

It went as it had come, 
But with redoubled sorrows left me dumb. 

On ev'ry side 
I saw the smoke of sacrifice ascend 
From blameless blood for flesh that did offend, 

While ever far and wide 
The voices of the earth did wail and wrangle, 
And human fates were once again a tangle 

That may not be untied! 



THE TRUE GLORY 

Where were the honor of the youth 

Heading a hope forlorn, 
If Error's rampart fell when Truth 
First summon'd with her horn ? 
And where their worth 
Who read the earth 
Or stars in times benighted, 
If frugal toil 
And midnight oil 
Were with the spoil 
Requited ? 

Where were the merit of an alms 

To each neap-tide of yearning, 
If wheaten loaf into thy palms 

Next springtide were returning ? 
Then give as tho' 
The tides that flow 
Had never been bad debtors; 
Sweet Charity 
Her rarity 
Of parity 
Ne'er fetters! 



64 THE TRUE GLORY 

Where were the glory of a life 

Lit by such revelation 
That virtue as a dower'd wife 

Might keep thee from temptation ? 
Where were the meed 
Of hearts that bleed 
In friction with all sorrow, 
If ye could say 
Each tearful day 
" 'T will smile alway 
To-morrow ? " 



TRANSLATIONS 

EPIGRAMS FROM THE GREEK AN- 
THOLOGY. 



King Priam at his altar lying slain, 
Medea's rage or Niobe's last pain. 
The swallows chirping under bridal eaves 
Or mournful nightingales among the leaves 
Let none seek in my book, for all these lays 
Have unto former bards secured their bays. 
But love by laughing Graces mixt with wine; 
Too light is this for verse of stately line. 

II 

Was it waking or dream, in the vanishing light. 
That Moeris had kiss'd me when saying good- 
night ? 
In my mind all that happen'd beside is secure. 
What she asked, what she said, but I cannot be 

sure 
If her Idss was a phantom or truly was given: 
Should I wander on earth if uplifted to heaven ? 



66 FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY 

III 

Who may know his sweetheart fading 

While he with her stay ? 
Grace that yester was pervading, 

Shall it pass to-day ? 
If to-day it satisfy thee, 

Trust to-morrow's sun 
Selfsame joy will not deny thee 

In beloved one. 

(Strato of Sardis.) 

IV 

I WOULD say to thee: "Farewell!" 

But I linger on the brink. 
As from night of Acheron 

From our severance I shrink. 
Thou art like the light of day. 

Saving only, that is dumb, 
While the murmur of thy speech 

Makes with hope my pulses hum. 
And the music to them bringing 
Sweeter is than Sirens' singing. 

(Paul the Silentiary.) 

V 

" Constance " — ah, no ! When first I heard 
Thy name it was a lovely word, 



FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY 67 

But afterward its sound became 
Than death more bitter, as thy name ! 
Thou fliest him that wooeth thee, 
And him that seeketh not, dost woo; 
So, if his heart shall captured be. 
Thou may'st then fly, and he pursue! 

(Macedonius.) 

VI 

O THAT I were a rose of tend'rest pink 
Bound in thy bosom*s snows, their grace to drink ! 

(Anonymous.) 

VII 

"O TOMB, beneath thee doth Charidas sleep?" 
" Arimmas* son, once of Cyrene ? Yea, 
He lieth here beneath me." "What canst say 
Of netherworld, Charidas ? " " Darkness deep ! " 
" Of hell ? " " A myth ! " " Of resurrection then ? " 
" A falsehood; we that die rise not again. 
True this ; if Samian tale thou deem more wise, 
Believe me a great ox in Paradise!" 

(Calhmachus.) 

VIII 

Not death is bitter, for all men come here, 
But death before the ripeness of the year. 
Parents bereaved, the bridal bed unknown, 
Much loved, more to be loved, lies 'neath this stone. 

(Anonymous.) 



THE ROSES OF THE HULDER 

(from the DANISH OF WILHELM BERGSOE) 

Where, deepest in the wildwood 
From scorching day aloof, 

The sunbeams vain are breaking 
Upon the beechy roof, 

Beneath the trunks so lofty, 

The forest's smiling eye. 
Wrapt in the garb of summer. 

All hiddenly doth lie. 

Upon the brink is bending. 
The glassy depths above. 

The quiv'ring birch, and gazing 
As if spell-bound with love. 

At the light zephyr's whisper 

Swayeth the supple reed. 
The soft cheek it caresseth 

Of floating water-weed. 



THE ROSES OF THE HULDER 69 

Their plumed hats a-nodding 

The bulrushes adorn, 
That on the lowly duck-weed 

Look down with haughty scorn. 

But on the lake's still surface 

A green-clad islet lies; 
The Roses of the Hulder 

Out of the waters rise. 

The place I well remember. 

Oft seen in childish hours, 
When in the meadow, gayly, 

I made my bed of flowers. 

And oft, with secret longing 
I wished that they were near; 

E'en then were Hulder's Roses 
To my young fancy dear. 

'T was on a warm St. John's Day, 

Drawing to even-tide. 
The redd'ning rays of sunset 

Over the mere did glide. 

The heat above the beeches 
Breathless and still did glower; 



70 THE ROSES OF THE HULDER 

Up from the low horizon 

There crept a distant shower. 

The surface of the water 

In mirror'd quiet lay, 
Behind its brows of rushes 

Did bUnking lightnings play. 

Methought that in their flashing 
The clustered flowers appear'd 

Waving in mystic motion, 
A dance so wild and weird. 

Lightly as playful Hulders, 
More yet, and more did break 

Forth from the dark recesses 
Deep hidden in the lake. 

And tones in song were shaping 
That wondrous music gave; 

And through the welkin ringing, 
Well'd from the gloomy wave. 

" Come to our quiet bower. 
Fair Son of Earth, and we. 

All that thy heart hath longed for. 
Give in return to thee! 



THE ROSES OF THE HULDER 71 

"We will appease thy yearning, 

Hushing the voice of care. 
Peace and content will give thee. 

Love's bliss beyond compare. 

" Calm as a child shalt slumber, 
Nor, while our arms entwine 

Thee in their soft embraces. 
For the world's loss shalt pine. 

" Come where the waves are rolling. 

Fair Son of Earth, and we 
All that thy heart hath longed for 

Give in return to thee!" 

While I, in half-enchantment, 
Gazed on the wondrous charm, 

Hungry and mad the passions 
Into my heart did swarm. 

Thoughts that I erst had stifled 

Now in my breast awoke. 
And from its inmost chambers 

Like a sun-burst they broke. 

Reckless of rising shower. 
Reckless of sinking day. 



72 THE ROSES OF THE HULDER 

'Mid the pool's ruffling waters 
Clove I my lusty way. 

Bubbled and splash'd the billows. 
Surging o'er lips and cheek, 

Strange liquid words of warning 
Seem'd to my soul to speak: 

"Robb'st thou the Hulder's Roses, 
She will take thine in pay; 

O hapless youth, return thou! 
Hie to the shore away! 

"Hasten! Beware! for evil 

Dwelleth herein alone; 
Robb'st thou the Hulder's Roses, 

Peace shalt thou never own!" 

But on the wave's arm hfted 
Swam I till, sudden press'd. 

Felt I my bosom lying 

Close to a throbbing breast. 

Then 'neath a might resistless 
Into the depths, Hke stone, 

Sank I as two lips, glowing. 
Were laid upon my own. 



THE ROSES OF THE HULDER 73 

Two clinging arms around me 

Folded, and then I knew 
All of Life's sweetest longing, 

While deathly cold I grew. 

Then did my limp hand slacken, 
Darkness came o'er my sight. 

As I sank, faint and swooning, 
Into the blackest night. 

When I again awaken'd. 

Courage of youth had fled; 
Blooming, the Hulder's Roses 

All at my feet lay spread. 

Many a year hath vanish'd 

Since, at that twihght hour, 
Deep in the glassy waters 

Sought I the Hulder's bower. 

Ne'er have I found contentment. 

Ne'er did my peace regain. 
Though for a haven ever 

Sought I and strove in vain. 

Never a wife I wedded. 
Never a home might build. 



74 THE ROSES OF THE HULDER 

Ne'er on my knees might cradle. 
Soothing to rest, a child. 

For to the Hulder gave I 
My innocence and peace; 

Nevermore may I win them. 
Never, till life shall cease! 



THE COSSACK COURIER 

(from the RUSSIAN OF PUSHKIN) 

Who rides 'neath moon and stars so late 
The horse with such a tireless gait. 
That flies unhinder'd by the rein 
O'er the immeasurable plain ? 

The Cossack northward keeps his way, 
The Cossack will not halt nor stay 
In open field nor gloomy wood 
Nor parlous passage of the flood. 

A glassy gleaming blade he bears, 
A purse upon his breast is ringing. 
The steed surefooted lightly fares 
With flowing mane and crest upspringing. 

Of ducats hath the courier need. 
The youth rejoiceth in his sword. 
And tho' he valueth his steed. 
His cap is still the dearest hoard. 



76 THE COSSACK COURIER 

To keep the cap he 'd yield the blade. 
The ducats and the thoroughbred; 
But if the cap a prize be made, 
With it must come that restless head. 

And how so precious should he hold 
The cap ? A note sewn in its fold 
To the Tsar Peter doth convey 
A traitor's doom from Kochubey. 



THE TEARS OF THE MOTHERS 

(from the RUSSIAN OF NEKRASOV) 

When brooding o'er the woes of war 
At each new victim of the strife, 

No fallen hero I deplore 

And pity neither friend nor wife. 

Alas! The wife will find relief 

And best of friends forget his friend, 

But somewhere is a soul whose grief 
Only within the grave shall end. 

'Mid our impostures and the round 

Of prosy triviality 
Once only in the world I Ve found 

Tears sacred with reality. 

The mothers' tears forever mounting 
For children in the carnage torn; 

That memory hath no discounting, 
Those hearts like willow boughs are borne ! 

LOFC. 



MORTAL IRONIES 

(from the RUSSIAN OF DOBROLIUBOV) 

My soul of Death's sure coming hath no dread 
Save lest he play some prank upon me dead, 
Lest scalding tears be spill'd upon my clay 
Or blossoms squander'd in my narrow bed. 

Lest any but the hireling mourners pace 
Behind me to the final dwelling-place. 

Or Fame, relenting at my hapless lot, 
In mocking marble my new merit trace. 

Lest the dear dream for which I vainly yearn'd 
Incarnate be when I to air am turn'd. 

And leaning o'er the urn wherein they lie. 
Smile at the ashes that such frenzy burn'd ! 



THE WHITE SWALLOW 

(from the CHINESE OF SHAN TAl) 

Few are the hearts that the lusts of the day 
Leave white at the set of the sun; 

To the blossoming pear-tree I hie me away, 
Nor care, be the world lost or won. 

Pale are my plumes as I skim thro' the air, — 
I would scorn to be tinged like the crow, — 

And my outline, if fuller when homeward I fare, 
Must be moulded of nothing but snow. 

My shadow gleams white on the darkness of night; 

Tho', plunged in the bloom of the peach. 
All the purple of spring-time I've worn in my 
flight. 

My mantle I never need bleach. 

Ah, many are winging of radiant doves 

To flutter in evil apart, 
Thro' the tempest of jealousies, sunshine of loves, 

I alone bring an innocent heart! 



AT THE GRAVE OF HSIAO HSIAO-HO 

(from the Chinese) 

Here by the lake and hill lies hid away 

Beauty as rich as honey-blooms and clear 
As moonlight, one whose image fitly may 

Be cast in gold. The swift streams disappear 
In silence and the peach forever fades. 

O nevermore that perfume from afar 
Mayst thou inhale, nor meet that precious car 

With burthen coyly screen'd by lacquer'd 
shades ! 
The legend of Six Dynasties doth still 

Linger by Lake Hsi-ling and still the scent, 
Faint but familiar, of her name doth fill 

This place, altho' a thousand years be spent. 
The bearded petals wag in wantonness. 

And willows toss their curls with petulance 
Upon the breeze — ah, surely they express 

The soul of her above whose dust they dance ! 



SONNETS 

AN ULTIMATUM 

Shall it be peace or war betwixt us twain ? 

It hath been formal peace, yet thou dost raid 
My frontier, and its fortresses are ta'en 

By sheer surprise, or slight defense have made 
'Gainst night attacks. Shall it be peace or war ? 

If peace, thou shouldst recall the subtle spies 
That search my kingdom to its very core; 

Those scouts whose rendezvous is in thine 
eyes. 
Shall it be peace or war ? If peace, return 

The Captive thou hast led away to pine. 
Or yield a Hostage ! All my borders burn 

With ravage by thy horsemen of the line. 
Thy Red and White Hussars whose sudden 

charge 
Of smiles works panic in my realm at large! 

Shall it be war or peace betwixt us twain ? 

If this be peace, then would I welcome strife, 



82 AN ULTIMATUM 

Would raise my standard that so long hath lain 

Shamefully furl'd, and battle for my life, 
My land and crown ! Shall it be war or peace ? 

If war, then will I rally my reserve, 
Summon my faithful lieges, and increase 

Mine arsenals, nor further will I swerve 
When challenged, but will meet thee at each 
point, 

Casqued and cuirass'd and cuissed and greaved 
with steel. 
Nor shall there lurk one weakly armor-joint 

Thro' which thy thrusts or arrows I might feel. 
Shall it be war or peace ? In peace I find 
No calm; war may bring freedom to my mind. 



TENNYSON: A MEMOIR 

Like a deep symphony on many strings 

The music of this Life : now sweet and low 
With pity for all life's dishonor'd things. 

Now like the clarion that defies a foe 
And calls a friend to action. Nothing here 

Was out of tune with larger hope and aim. 
And nothing mask'd that needed to be clear 

In its high message. Tho' the poet's fame 
Lack'd no apology to keep it bright. 

His nature was less open to mankind. 
The veil withdrawn lets fall a flood of light 

Upon the truth we knew not but divined; 
Faith, Hope, and Charity are seen and heard 
In voice and deed, as in the written word. 



TO HERMES ANGELUS 

(a sonnet for china's entrance into the 

POSTAL union) 

O plume-heel'd Patron of the Post, whose wand 

Is twined with snakes of Secrecy and Speed, 
Smite hard the sorcery that holds this land 

In its long swoon, and if some pore may bleed, 
'T will of congestion clear the wak'ning brain ! 

Thou didst betroth the dayspring to the dusk. 
Thou too hast harnessed the champing main; 

The venom drieth in the Dragon's tusk. 
And thou must gather his discordant sons 

With all the nations at one hearth of hope 
And human interest. Thy girdle runs 

'Round the wide orb at last; what pathways 
ope 
In peace from folk to folk! No East nor West; 
One kith and kin upon the fair Earth's breast! 



IN A MOUNTAIN LAMASERY 

(a sonnet sequence) 

Gilt Buddha, with the heavy-Kdden eyes, 

Whose glances seem hypnotically jail'd 
By walls of an unconscious paradise. 

Tell me, how many moons have glow'd and 
paled 
Since in thy Mongol face at length was lost 

All trace of Prince Siddartha's lineaments ? 
How long, O placid mystic, since thou wast 

Carved in thy convert's image, and the scents 
Of Ind upon thine altar were replaced 

With sandal-powder, mill'd beside the brooks 
That else adown the Lu Shan rush to waste ? 

Thou wilt not answer, but the ancient rooks 
That nest upon the cedar at thy gate 
Are cursing me as unregenerate ! 

Alas, I fear thy bent and wheezy bonze 

Is not a ritualist; he offered me 
For copper coin the candlesticks of bronze 

And curtain from thy shrine of filagree. 



86 IN A MOUNTAIN LAMASERY 

Nay, dare I whisper it ? — but thou shouldst 
know — 

He hinted that he might replace thyself 
For thirty silver shoes! Quoth I, "Not so; 

They who have bartered Gods for petty pelf 
Did never prosper!" Then he smote the gong 

That hung beside us and so summon'd thee 
To hear his orisons and even-song. 

The sacred birds still scolded from their tree, 
As through the quaint and lonely temple's gloom 
Ebb'd into silence that deep, brazen boom. 

drowsy deity in lacquer'd shrine. 
Thou art a symbol of the lassitude 

That over all things human and divine 
In this embalmed antiquity doth brood! 

1 see afar the Yangtse's saffron sash 
And hear the grinder-locust chiselling; 

Gay orioles among the thickets flash. 

Throughout the dark and mossy glen there ring 

Mute melodies in perfume from the bells 
Of golden ylang-ylang, in whose vent 

Linger old Wonderland's illusive spells 
And that vague glamour of the Orient 

Which fadeth like dream-roses from our ken. 

As we approach the sordid hives of men. 



THE PORCELAIN TOWER 

The tower is fallen: only brick and shard 

Of rubble-heap show where it used to rise; 
The earth with many a painted tile is starr'd 

That flash'd of yore the hue of sunset skies. 
No more the bells make music from the eaves 

That gently upward from each story curFd; 
No more the careless traveler believes 

This was among the wonders of the world. 
The thickets push above it and the weeds 

Hide with rank blossoms the encaustic flowers 
Of porcelain; the woolly tufted reeds 

Nod drowsily thro' the long summer hours. 
The tower is fallen: shattered is the clay 
That was the pride and symbol of Cathay. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Better ne'er met than met too late! 17 

Between the Po-yang Lake and Yang-tse rise ... 25 

" Constance," — ah, no! When first I heard .... 66 

Ev'n as a wintry star 16 

Few are the hearts that the lusts of the day .... 79 

Gilt Buddha, with the heavy-lidden eyes 85 

Good is the cheer at the Sign of the Rose 47 

Hail and farewell 3 

He is fit, if a fitness be proved in survival 19 

Here by the lake and hill lies hid away 80 

I would say to thee : "Farewell!" 66 

It came as 't were a breath 62 

It chanced that in the Fourth Dimension met ... 38 

It was a night of mystery and grace 59 

It was in Limbo, the Forgotten Land 54 

King Priam at his altar lying slain 65 

Like a deep symphony on many strings 87 

Like silver sails that on midsummer seas 15 

My soul of Death's sure coming hath no dread ... 78 

Not death is bitter, for all men come here 67 

O doubting boy 6 

O plume-heel'd Patron of the Post, whose wand ... 84 

O that I were a rose of tend' rest pink 67 

"O tomb, beneath thee doth Charidas sleep?" ... 67 

On a shield we raised our King 34 

Our forefathers attuned their minstrelsy 9 



90 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Race whose drum-beat marks the quickstep of the 

morning 23 

Shall it be peace or war betwixt us twain ? .... 81 

The mountain summits clear and blue 13 

The tower is fallen : only brick and shard 87 

The witches have mounted the wind and away in the 

welkin are prancing 42 

Thou art but a Secretion: get thee hence 45 

Thy beauty makes not the muezzin-call 1 

To them who sat in darkness and the shade .... 49 

Was it waking or dream, in the vanishing light ... 65 

We ring the curtain down with cheers 21 

"What is the road to a maiden's heart?" 11 

When brooding o'er the woes of war, 77 

Where, deepest in the wildwood 68 

Where I wander'd, who may tell ? 51 

Where were the honor of the youth 63 

Whither we marched I cannot say, 32 

Who may know his sweetheart fading 66 

Who rides 'neath moon and stars so late 75 

Yes, fill the pipe again, — one measure more .... 30 



BEC 6 «9« 



